


One Hundred Years or More

by letscallitink



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kaecilius has always been a problem child, Some angst, i don't know how to tag, mostly just the Cloak being a boss, the Ancient One gets a name, the Cloak is smarter than you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 01:20:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letscallitink/pseuds/letscallitink
Summary: The Cloak of Levitation was fickle, they said, but they were wrong. The Cloak was distrustful, and rightly so. It was they who were fickle. The Cloak was only waiting, patiently, and hoping.





	One Hundred Years or More

**Author's Note:**

> This is a one-shot, for now, but I might add another chapter for Thor 3 or any other Marvel movie that the Cloak might show up in. Just for funsies.

 The Cloak's first master had not been a good man. Many of them weren't, these sorcerers. So many of them fell to the evils of witchcraft. More of them felt the call of the dark than any of them would admit, and there were those who caved to temptation and tasted the seductive darkness. And a taste was never enough - they always took a little bit more and a little bit more and a little bit more. Even those of them who were dedicated to what was good fell into ill, evil practices, not knowing any better that they were pulling power not from within, but from that hidden place that – no, the Cloak did not wish to dwell on that. The Cloak had been the victim of _so many masters_ who dabbled in the wicked arts, and if it were human, it would feel sick with how tainted they seemed.

Maybe that was what instilled the Cloak with such distrust. Being a Relic was such a burden. Not a person in the traditional sense, but not a simple object at all. A _being_ , certainly, but one treated like a tool to be used or a prize to be earned. Kept in a glass case, on display! The nerve of them! They spoke as if they respected the Cloak, respected the power and age of it, but not the _existence_. Not the fact that the Cloak was, although different from them, not _less_ than them.

Just because it could not walk on two legs? Who needed to walk when there was flight? And who needed to speak when there was motion, glorious motion, and touch and gravity and the magnificently expressive folding of soft fabric?

Or maybe that, too, was a biased view, but could you blame the Cloak for that? No.

They brought people to the Cloak. Sorcerers, old and young, novices and masters, to see if the Cloak would choose them. A few had potential, the Cloak could admit that, but not enough for the Cloak to give in to temptation and demand release from that _humiliating_ glass case. So the Cloak shied away, as far away as it could manage, making it as clear as possible that _no_ , it would _not_ take another master, male or female, young or old, until one came that could be called _trustworthy_. For the Cloak had been disused, abused, and thrown to the side _too many times_.

There was one brought before the Cloak, and the Cloak could tell that they had high hopes for this one. The Ancient One certainly seemed optimistic, but that meant nothing to the Cloak. The Cloak saw his spirit and _cringed_ , but that was not the only reason to turn away. The man whispered such awful words to the Cloak. They were honey-coated and phrased like promises, and the Cloak recognized evil. Power, the man promised. Glory in darkness. Eternity.

Lies.

_I already have eternity_ , the Cloak thought, _even in death, when it comes to me. Even_ _ **I**_ _can die, as all mortal things do. You will have eternity too, one day, and you will regret it in your very soul,_ ** _Kaecilius_** _._

All those arrogant _fools_ , believing themselves to be _powerful_. Oh, if only the Cloak could speak, could communicate in the way that they did, it would _tell_ them _how wrong_ they were! They had some things right and so many things wrong and it tainted everything.

But that was what it was, and there was little the Cloak could do about it. They had good intentions, at least, and while that was no excuse… maybe, one day, they would come to understand. The Cloak could help them get there, in the meantime. It could _try_.

Or, it _would_. Someday. When someone came who could be trusted, and the Cloak was let out of its glass cage.

After Kaecilius betrayed them, the Ancient One came to the Cloak – the Cloak knew her name; remembered her as she once was. She was _Elsha_. She took the Cloak out of its case, a sweet freedom in such a bitter time, tracing her gentle hands across hemlines that were even older than she knew.

"Did you know?" she asked, whispering even in the privacy of a nearly-empty Sanctum.

_Yes. I knew._

"Would you tell me, if you did?" At this, she laughed, but it was strained and without humor, and her voice broke upon it. This was not only a betrayal of a student, but of a dear friend. She loved Kaecilius. She had taken joy in watching him learn and watched in horror as he fell to the same dark call that she once did.

_I would have. I've tried, for there is so much to be said, but I am not of Mankind. I am not of words or of any language you could comprehend._

"I know you would," she agreed, as if she could understand the Cloak.

She pressed her face to the warmth of red fabric, allowing the Cloak to brush away those rare tears, before putting it away again.

Time passed. The Cloak did not know how much. There was so much time and very little of it had much to do with the Cloak. It could have been a hundred years or more, and it would make no difference to the Cloak. Time was running out, just as it always had been, tick-tick-tick. Time was not _just_ a human construct, after all, despite what they thought. But the Cloak knew its place in existence and did not care of time. There was the beginning and the end and the after, and the Cloak knew that the after would be the best part.

In the meantime, thought, there was silence. Loneliness. Distrust and hurt festered. The Cloak could feel trouble brewing, could feel the epic, _idiotic_ tragedy that was Kaecilius being misled into the dark places.

Kaecilius was a special sort of idiot, the Cloak believed, despite all his potential. Most sorcerers practiced evil arts because evil painted itself as goodness and light. Dormammu did no such thing. Dormammu was dark, a destroyer and admittedly so, promising eternal life without quality, and Kaecilius was so foolish as to think that, _what_ – that the darkness could be held on a leash like a pet? That it would bow to him, or share power without price?

Yes, a true fool was Kaecilius.

The Cloak perked up when it sensed the presence of a man that had never been in the Sanctum before. The Cloak did not know this one, but it could _see_ …

This one was selfish and arrogant. Reckless and in terrible pain for it. Fallible and laughably so, tempted by any shiny thing he found upon his path. Lacking in control and driven by fear. Faithless.

But not hopeless. The Cloak could see that. This man, for all his many, many flaws, had… love. A crippled, limping love that had never been nurtured, but love, all the same. Love was true power. Love was the opposite of the darkness. Love was what made Mankind _shine_. And that wasn't all, though that was the best part. Pride bred in this man, but the Cloak sensed the ability to step above pride. He wasn't ready to look beyond himself yet, but he _would_ be. The Cloak could wait for that. It had waited for so long, after all.

_You!_ The Cloak lifted even higher, preening under the man's admiring, curious gaze. _I want you! I can help. I can teach you!_

The man was distracted by Kaecilius, or a wraith of what Kaecilius had been, and the Cloak once again wished that it could have a voice, if only so that it could scream in frustration.

There was a fight. The Cloak was strong, but without a master, it was not strong enough to break through the glass.

And then the glass shattered.

Freedom was instant and intense and, finally, _worth_ the wait. The Cloak protected the man from Kaecilius and his followers, fighting like it did _so many_ years ago. It was _thrilling_. It was better than the Cloak remembered, and flight was so _marvelous_ and the man was so– so–

So _stupid_.

_No, you fool, not the axe! The axe isn't going to do– no, stop,_ _**this way** _ _, the way I'm_ _**pulling you** _ _, just trust the ancient mystical relic to know more than you, please, before you get yourself killed, for goodness sakes, how have you lasted so long without me and_ _**why** _ _–_

But it worked out alright. This man, _Doctor Strange_ , could do well. _Would_ do well. He had a flair for dramatics, at least, which was a major bonus, in the Cloak's opinion. Yes, it sprouted from a tremendous ego and sense of pride, but what was the point of having what was basically –and the Cloak _wasn't_ bragging about this, no, of course not– an _absolutely glorious_ red _superhero cape_ if you didn't at least give it a little twirl every once and awhile?

Well, Stephen definitely gave the Cloak a stellar twirl, and if _that_ didn't make the Cloak feel young again…

_I think we shall be a most excellent team, you and I, even if you_ _**are** _ _a bit rough around the edges._

Doctor Strange, of course, could not possibly hear what the Cloak was trying to say and could not respond, but the Cloak liked to think that Stephen _knew_. Maybe he did.

"The Cloak of Levitation!" exclaimed Mordo. He was very impressed, _as he should have been_.

_Who, me? The Cloak of Levitation? No, no, just the dingy old decoration you left in a glass box for a hundred years or so. Or… no, wait…_

Suffice to say, the Cloak still wasn't pleased about that.

The Cloak remembered when Mordo was presented, to be weighed and measured and chosen or not (definitely not). He was an idealistic little man. There was nothing wrong with that, no, that was very good! But Mordo's idealism was without a strong foundation, and more than that, idealism is no substitute for faith. Stephen didn't have much of either, but he did have that wilted little sapling of love and a completely untapped well of potential, and that would be _much_ easier to work with, as well as much stronger, in the end. That, and, well, the Cloak just didn't think that Mordo would be able to deal with the Cloak's… eccentricities. But Stephen seemed like more of a roll-with-the-punches man.

There was temporary rest, a lull in the action, as it were, when the Cloak finally calmed down enough to notice the _Infinity Stone_.

_Oh, Stephen, you really_ _**are** _ _stupid. But don't worry! I'm here to save you from your stupid self. Do you even know what you have there?_

Fighting, _again_. Mostly flying, on the Cloak's part, and that was just fine. Brilliant, in fact. The Cloak had not been given the opportunity to air out its fibers in years, much less _fly_. It had almost forgotten the sensation. But flying again was _wonderful_ , and the doctor seemed very amiable to it. The Cloak was surprised at Stephen's sudden adjustment to the disorienting sensation of levitation. None of the others did that. Some of them had even _screamed_ when the Cloak picked them up, but not Stephen. He just gracefully pulled his strides up, even pushing a little at the right moments in order to give them some extra momentum. Not that the Cloak _needed_ momentum, but it was this detail that made one thing very obvious.

Stephen Strange was _born_ to fly.

_I have chosen well. Yes, I have._

And then they lost Elsha.

The Cloak knew grief all too well. The Ancient One, dearest Elsha, had not always done well by the Cloak, but that did not mean that the Cloak did not love her. To lose her now, just as hope was on the horizon, was… unfair. _Incredibly_ unfair. Death came when it was meant to, but that did not mean that it was easy. If the Cloak could weep, it would have. But, it couldn't – it could only _cling_ to the slumped shoulders Doctor Strange, who didn't know any better. Didn't know that the Cloak was _screaming_ in its voiceless being. Didn't know that her name was Elsha or that all of her mistakes, as terrible as they were, had been forgiven. As _his_ could be.

Just as the Cloak once wiped away Elsha's tears, it wiped away those of Stephen.

"Stop!" Stephen chastised after having his go at bravado ruined by the Cloak's sympathy.

The Cloak _did_ stop, but only to laugh, because it knew that _this_ was the way it would be with Stephen Strange.

After a hundred years or more of waiting, the Cloak believed that Stephen Strange was well worth it.


End file.
